Out of the Ruins of a Kingdom
by Lerafea
Summary: She is unlike any other. Though she bears the physique of a human girl, the Elven tongues of Old spill fluently from her lips. Further yet, she claims to be the Lady of a fallen house and seems intent on driving Glorfindel stark, raving mad.
1. Stranger From a Distant Land

Summary: She was unlike any other human they had met. Was she mortal or was she elf? She had the physique of a human girl-child barely on the cusp of adulthood, yet the languages of the Old Firstborn tripped fluently off of her tongue. Better still, she claimed to be the daughter of the Noldor and seemed intent on driving Glorfindel mad.

Disclaimer: I own nothing that the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien lays claim to and am making no monetary profits out of this.

Author's Note: So I'm supposed to be studying and writing research papers and getting ready for examinations. Or, barring all the insanity that law school bring, updating my other fics. However, I was (at the unfortunate hour of four in the morning) hit with a very strong urge to begin this story and so here I am some 16 hours later.

I feel obligated to warn all of you that the original character protagonist here seems rather Mary Sue-ish, even to me, at first instance. But the girl my whack imagination has dreamed up is, most assuredly, flawed (and no I don't mean in the she-has-an-incredibly-sad-and-emo-past-and-thus-has-trauma-and-trust-issues way). I am also grappling with the odd writing style my brain seems to have adopted and the fact that this is my first LoTR fanfiction. I am not a fanatic so any errors have to be pardoned, pointed out and pulverized. I beg forgiveness in advance.

That said, I hope you enjoy this rather strange tale that I have begun to spin. This is predominantly a romance served with the side dishes of adventure, family, drama and some humour (I hope). There will be a twist or three that some of you will hate and others may enjoy. Feel free to review, to flame, to tell me how much you hate (or love) me. I will take it in my stride the best way I know how to and use it to kindle the flame of enjoyment that writing brings.

Also, this is (hopefully) the last A/N you'll see from me in this fic. Reviews will be responded to via email where possible. Enjoy!

* * *

Chapter One: Stranger from a distant land

_Year 15 of the Third Age, Iavas (Early Autumn)_

It was a battlefield that they had come across, riddled with the bodies of orc and man alike. In the midst of the carnage, four figures stood back to back, surrounded by a circle of advancing menaces. The air was filled with a tense and fearful silence, broken only by the harsh pants of the few survivors as they stared in helpless terror at the grotesque faces before them that spelled a certain death. One of their number uttered a hoarse prayer, to the evident amusement of the monsters who mocked them with leers and guttural laughter.

Then, without warning, the smallest of the four lashed out with a blade, knocking over the nearest orc after slashing its vulnerable neck. An unlikely battle cry sounded, soon drowned out by the determined yells of the other humans who leapt forward as if on cue, weapons raised and aiming to kill than to be killed.

And yet the initial cry rang loud in his ears, long after it had been muffled by the desperate yells of men as Glorfindel suppressed the shudder that curled in his lower back and crept swiftly up his spine. Raising his sword with one arm, he gave an unspoken command and his company of ten warriors drew taut their bowstrings.

"Fire with care," he ordered, placing utmost trust in their abilities to seek out the enemy with their arrows while leaving the innocents unharmed.

Their aim was true and it was with grim satisfaction that the golden-haired elf watched the dark figures join their kindred on the ground, each one hitting the hard earth with a loud thud. Those that the elven archers did not kill, the humans quickly took care of. Just ten minutes following their intervention, silence once again descended upon the deserted road. This time, it was broken by the despairing wail of a survivor who fell to his knees and began bemoaning the loss of his kinsman. Two of the remaining three were quick to share his grief but the last of the group – the one who had launched the first attack and the only hooded one – merely surveyed the damage, his back to the elves that stood but fifty meters away.

Allowing the company to lower their bows, Glorfindel watched the curious figure with narrowed eyes, quirking a fair brow as it tugged one of their arrows free from the sickening flesh of an orc to study it. The arrow was replaced after a moment, almost gently, onto the ground, before the person started the walk forward and away without nary a backward glance.

Immediately, the Imladris guards tensed, ready to leap forward at his command. But the elf lord merely issued orders to aid with the cremation or burial of the dead before spurring his steed forward and taking only one of the guard with him.

"Halt," he called out twice in the common tongue, his voice ringing across the deserted road. But still the figure pressed forward, unheeding, until Glorfindel cut into his path and blocked it off with his horse.

With the sun behind him, the tall elf loomed over the figure who seemed much smaller in stature up close and was startled (though he would not admit to it) when the vivid green eyes of a female met his own piercing one unflinchingly.

"Why do you walk away from us?"

The hooded head tilted to the side, like the bobbing head of a curious bird, as she regarded him thoughtfully with a slight frown to her brow.

"Will you not answer me?" He demanded after several moments of silence, pitching his voice in a low and threatening tone. The girl was mad if he thought he would simply let her walk away after engaging in a fight so close to an elven sanctuary. Had she stayed behind to help with the dead, he might have dismissed her with the surviving humans, perhaps even after offering them a night of hospitality in Imladris. Now, however, her behaviour was too strange to let pass.

But still she stared at him, with that perplexed expression on her face, even as she huddled slightly into the material of her worn travelling cloak as though she could hide away in it and disappear until he had left.

"…_Ú-hanyanyel…_" she finally expressed, biting down on her bottom lip when Glorfindel intensified his glare. A glare that swiftly melted into a closed-off expression as the golden-haired elf digested this new piece of information.

_I don't understand you._

It was a tongue he had not heard for centuries, save for academic discourse which several elves tried, and continued to try, to impress him with.

"_Quetilyë Quenya?_"

_You speak Quenya?_

It seemed a daft question for both her battle cry and reply had been in that dialect, but she did not mock him for it. Instead, a small smile lifted the corners of her lips as she responded affirmatively – _Náto – _and inclined her head in what could only be a respectful nod. The hood fell across her forehead, and she pushed it up slightly, though not enough for her hair to be exposed.

Glorfindel's lone companion had stiffened in his seat upon his mount when the girl uttered her first words, but now stared in open curiousity and bafflement at the girl who spoke in an elven dialect that had fallen out of use almost an age ago. She looked young, perhaps no more than twenty-five summers, and lacked the build and aura of an _elleth. _Surely she was of the _Eldain_. Yet the very words she spoke said otherwise.

"_Ma esselya ná? Mallo nalyë? Man nalyë sinomë?" _Three quick questions, asked in rapid succession. _What is your name? Where are you from? Why are you here?_

The girl laughed, a cheerful _human_ sound quickly stifled behind the material of her thick cloak. She ignored his first two questions but answered the last readily enough. It was a simple tale, really.

Travelling East along the Old Forest Road towards the mountains of Mirkwood, she had chanced upon the band of orcs who had ambushed a travelling party of merchants. Naturally, she could not leave them to their doom and had charged (foolishly, she admitted with a trace of sheepishness) straight into the fray.

"_What little skill I have I have offered,_" she lamented with a regretful sigh. "_Twas not enough. It pains me so for fragile is the human life." _

Glorfindel nodded his acceptance of her tale, noting that his men were starting the pyre even as he continued his study of the girl.

"_Your actions are honourable. But I'm afraid I cannot let you leave thus."_

"_Why?" _

"_You are a stranger. And we are still coming out of dark times,_" Glorfindel responded frankly, ignoring the guard's restless shifting on his horse. "_Failing that, it goes against my honour to allow a maiden to roam the lands alone, so soon after a skirmish with the yrch." _

That expression of open perplexity was back, and it seemed that she found his words somewhat consternating as a torrent of questions and arguments spilled past dry lips to counter Glorfindel's apparent wishes.

So what if she was female? Had she not been travelling the lands by herself the past decade? She was, most assuredly, a capable fighter. Had she not already proven so? She had no intention of even setting foot into Imladris, would he manhandle her into going? Was she a threat? Did she _look_ like a threat? A slight girl who stood only to his chin? Was she to be guest or glorified prisoner?

It seemed like she cared very little that she was contradicting herself, and Glorfindel's guard could not help the amused curving of his lips. He knew very little Quenya, and barely understood the gist of the words being exchanged between his fair Captain and the queer woman-child. Glorfindel, however, was as unmovable as the Misty Mountains and the girl soon caved, albeit with a frown firmly in place.

_"Ú merinyes,"_ she stated, somewhat sullenly as she turned to take a look at the grieving men amidst stoic elves. "_I do not desire it. __But since you insist so adamantly, I can do little but follow you and prove my trustworthiness as you see fit."_

Satisfied with his success, the fair elf lord nodded and swung his faithful steed around, leaving the exasperated girl with his soldier while he saw to the rest of the clean up. She had evaded a few questions of his today, but there were plenty more where those came from and she would find ignoring them a rather futile course of action in time to come.

The guard-turned-escort offered a hand to the girl, gallantly hoisting her onto his horse before retracing his Captain's steps. She said nothing to him, murmuring faintly under her breath in a strange language that was neither Quenya nor any other tongue he had heard before.

* * *

Three men and one girl had settled into Elrond's halls, partaking gratefully in his hospitality. Few elves, however, caught sight of the Secondborn guests, for they chose to remain in their rooms for meals and never ventured far beyond their doorway. They were grieving, it was said, for two and twenty of their number had perished at the cruel hands of orcs. Beyond providing them with food, baths and lodgings, the elves saw no reason to interfere with their pain.

But on their third, and last, day there, Elrond sent a chambermaid to their rooms to inform them of his desire to see them at the evening meal for there was to be songs sung in remembrance of their fallen friends. The men agreed, not daring to turn down an elven request, but the girl merely stared blankly back at the maid with a question in her eyes.

"Do you not understand me?"

Apparently not, for the girl merely blinked. Muttering an unbecoming curse in Elvish, the elleth broke off only to stare in wonder at the slight female when she interrupted with a polite "_Man pedannel_?" _What did you say? _

"_Heniol!_" The made exclaimed. The girl spoke Sindarin! "Do you understand me?"She asked again, just to make sure. A slight hesitant nod had the elleth shaking her head in wonder. The human girl spoke Sindarin but not the common tongue! Her speech was slightly accented, though with what the elf could not place. How so very strange. She did not look like she was of Gondorian nobility. In fact, she did not look like she was from any place the maid could name.

"The Lord of Imladris requests your presence at this evening's meal and at the night's festivities in the Hall after that."

"Oh,"the girl murmured, reaching up to worry at the ends of her hair. The elleth – Ninimmeth – noted the dry ends with some disapproval. "You have my thanks for informing me."

"I am only fulfilling my duties_," _Ninimmeth demurred, giving the girl's attire a once over. "Do you require help with your dressing, Miss?"

A pale brow rose, and Ninimmeth wondered if she had offended the human, although her expression was one of surprise than indignance. She seemed to consider the offer for several moments before she smiled a little wryly and shook her head, her hands falling into a clasp in front of her even as she rocked back restlessly onto the balls of her feet. Like all humans, she was probably disconcerted by the stillness of the Firstborn.

"That will not be necessary, I thank you."

With that, their exchange ended, and Ninimmeth was left to return to her duties, bursting to tell all who would listen about the strange human girl with bright green eyes and strange coloured hair who spoke formal Sindarin as though it were her mother tongue.

When the chambermaid had left, the human girl returned to her seat in front of the small vanity. For several long minutes, she stared at her reflection in the mirror, and wondered how she had managed to land herself in such a fantastic situation. Her only intent had been to seek out the Silvan woodelves of Mirkwood and pass a message on to their King as instructed; not to impose on the hospitality of the elf who was once the High King's Herald.

"_What am I supposed to do now,_ ammë?" she whispered in her first language, addressing a mother that was no longer by her side. "_Do I hope against hope once more? This is driving me crazy._"

Reaching for a hair brush, she began to methodically run its bristles through her hair, humming a soft, melancholic tune as she unknotted and untangled the dry strands. Had she any at hand, she would have worked some oil into it for it was getting dry. But Elrond's household had not provided any and she was loathe to make the request. With nimble fingers, the girl made two short braids each down the sides of her head before gathering all of her mane into a tail high atop her head. The ends now brushed the nape of her neck, and she bound it together with a thick leather cord that looked as though it may once have been a fastening on her shoe.

There was nothing she could do about her clothes – a pair of plain breeches and an equally plain tunic held together by an unadorned leather belt from which several pouches hung – for she carried only a spare set that looked identical to the one she had on and even that was currently hanging to dry on her balcony. She had on no jewellery but a silver pendant that lay hidden behind her tunic and the finest piece of clothes she had on were her soft leather gauntlets and sturdy suede boots.

With a slight shrug to herself, the girl turned away from the mirror and began sorting through her meager belongings. Though she looked nowhere near fit to be in the presence of an elven lord, she was, at least, neat and clean. It was the best she could do given her current situation.

She was carefully cleaning one of the twin blades she wielded when there was a knock at her door. Startled, she dropped the oiling rag onto the table and quickly put her weapons away. Had evening fallen so fast?

But where the chambermaid had stood earlier in the day, an armed soldier awaited. Sketching a short and informal bow to her, he bade her to follow him as his lord had requested an interview with her.

Nodding her acquiescence, the girl slipped from behind the heavy door and out of the small room, closing and locking it with the key that had been lent to her for the duration of her stay. She carried nothing with her, though the familiar weight of daggers in both boots reassured her somewhat

As she followed the soldier through what seemed to be a maze of corridors, the verdant-eyed girl wondered what the elven lord wanted with an insignificant being such as herself. Unbidden, an image of a fair, golden-haired elf came to her mind's eye and she shook her head. What a meddling old eldar, she thought with a surge of mild displeasure. She had no doubt that he was more than a few millennia old, for even his cold, guarded gaze could not completely mask the whirlpool of pain in his golden eyes. This, however, did not give him leave to detain whomever he wished to detain. Why, neither she nor the men they had saved had done nothing wrong!

Only years of training to keep a fiery temper in reign kept the building frustration from creeping onto her purposefully blank expression. Once upon a time, the mortal would have lashed out with harsh words and futile fists, but now she merely waited to see how events would unfold. Although many lessons her beloved _ammë_ had tried to teach her flew leagues above her head, this was one that had been caught and drilled relentlessly into her head – Rash actions led to rash consequences.

It was a good ten minutes later that they came to a stop in front of the Lord's study, which was no surprise as the guest wing was at the opposite end of the nobles' residences. A tenor invited her in after the soldier had announced her, and it was with some trepidation that she pushed open the door.

The room was bright, spacious and warmed by the rays of the setting sun. Like everything about this elven haven, there was beauty to behold at every turn. A small smile curved her lips as the girl compared this to her home from long ago. It seemed to her that no matter what it was the elves were dealing with, as long as matter touched their hands, it turned into something beautiful.

"Welcome, Miss," a dark-haired elf greeted her from where he sat comfortably behind a large desk laden with papers. He gestured her towards an empty seat in front of him with a polite smile and nod. A familiar golden-haired Captain lounged against the wall to his right while a brunette elf rose politely in the seat next to her indicated perch. "I apologise for not speaking with you earlier, but other matters held my attention at arrest. I am Elrond of Imladris."

"Well met, my Lord,"she greeted in accented Sindarin, thanking him politely before seating herself without further preamble.

"I trust all is well?"

"Aye, you have my thanks for your kind hospitality."

"Yet my seneschal informs me that you had no wish to be here," the formidable elf lord remarked without malice, covertly studying her with a sharp gaze. Glorfindel shifted on the spot where he stood, eyeing his kin with some unnamed emotion. Elrond had forbidden him to speak directly to her unless given leave and he had acquiesced in favour of remaining in the room.

"Indeed, for I belong not to the party of men who were ambushed by the orcs," she responded honestly, lifting and dropping slender shoulders in a careless shrug. "I was East-bound and intended not to partake in your kindness."

"Unless you give me reason to decide otherwise, it is not within my power to detain you. I merely wished to offer you rest and respite before continuing your journey," Elrond assured her, a polite smile on his fair features. His curiousity, however, had been aroused by the girl that sat before him – The human girl spoke flawless Sindarin in one of its most archaic forms, with an accent that indicated her preference for Quenya. Gossip had also further corroborated Glorfindel's claim that the girl spoke neither the common Tongue nor Westron.

Added to her strange colourings and aura, she was a most curious thing.

For the most part, the green-eyed woman-child did not look like she was particularly taken in by his words, recognizing them for the mere polite words that they were. Still, she nodded, smiled and murmured her thanks as decorum indicated she should.

"I am Erestor, Advisor to Lord Elrond," the dark-haired elf seated beside her introduced himself, filling in the silence that threatened to fill the too-formal atmosphere. "We have not the pleasure of knowing your name."

She hesitated, and considered the request for a long moment. But when she spoke, it was with clarity and quiet certainty.

"I have been named Quelindiel Lérwë, Lady of the Ruins of the House of the Fountain."

A loud crash rang out in the room, and Lérwë half-turned in her seat to stare in concern at the golden-haired elf who had been oddly silent up until he broke a fine porcelain teapot on the ground. Elrond and Erestor were gazing at both in turn, neither willing to break the hush that had descended so abruptly upon them.

Gold met verdant and clung on, as though attempting to bear holes through the bright irises to read the mind of the consternating individual before him. Lérwë swallowed, subconsciously terrified as Glorfindel's complexion shifted gradually from sheet white to an angry red. The elf lord was furious, that much was evident, so much so that he broke tea cup with a clenched fist, drawing thick, crimson liquid from fair skin without so much as a wince.

* * *

To Be Continued…


	2. Haunting Memories of Old

Summary: She was unlike any other human they had met. Was she mortal or was she elf? She had the physique of a human girl-child barely on the cusp of adulthood, yet the languages of the Old Firstborn tripped fluently off of her tongue. Better still, she claimed to be the daughter of the Noldor and seemed intent on driving Glorfindel mad.

Disclaimer: I own nothing that the estate of J.R.R. Tolkien lays claim to and am making no monetary profits out of this.

* * *

Chapter 2: Haunting Memories of Old

How dare she?

How dare she come in here, a slight figure of a human, speaking the words of a tongue long fallen out of use and _desecrating_ the name of the House of the Fountain? It made him want to weep tears of blood and drive his sword through this human girl-child with her unnaturally green eyes and silver ash-blonde hair.

Out of the corner of his eyes, Glorfindel saw that Erestor had risen from his seat and was barely holding back from exclaiming in concern over his self-inflicted wounds. But the Lord of the Golden Flower paid him no heed, releasing the porcelain shards that dropped to the floor, and staining the carpet of Elrond's study. He took a step forward, eyes still locked with the startled green gaze. His irises may be a liquid gold, but all his vision saw at that moment was a haze of red that spoke of anger, blood and grief.

The day he had fallen for the people of Gondolin flashed before his eyes and he willed the child to see the pain that he had gone through for them. Who was she to lay claim to the seat of a House its lord and his _friend_ alongside a thousand other elves had died protecting?

"It takes more than speaking Quenya to say that you are of the Noldor, child," Elrond spoke, his voice a soothing tenor. A sharp glance was sent his way and Glorfindel paused mid-step and glared ferociously at his respected friend. "What proof have you to support this claim?"

More than perturbed, the girl – Lérwë – shifted so that all three ellyn were in her line of vision, without taking her eyes off the golden-haired captain who prowled forward with the intent of stealing life.

"I am not born to the Noldor," she clarified, her feet already tensed and ready to spring her from her seat and out of direct harm's way. "Not even to your fair race, as is evident. But my _amm_ë, my mother, she was the last of the House of the Fountain. And it was she who took me in and gave me my mother-name and title."

"Who was she?" Erestor asked from where he now stood by Glorfindel. He may not be as acclaimed a warrior as his colleague was, but he was confident enough in his abilities to stop him from murdering a guest, no matter how suspicious, in the middle of Elrond's study. "Why had she the need to take you in?"

"She called herself Quélë," Lérwë replied, and Glorfindel let an involuntary shudder course through the length of his body. Abruptly, the elf stepped forward and seated himself in Erestor's vacated chair, leaning forward so that he was less than a meter away from the girl who shot him a wary look. His rage had dimmed as quickly as it had flared, though the intensity of his emotions had not faded in the least. "Quélë," she murmured, translating the name though all present had no need for one. "One who is Fading."

"She was of the House of the Fountain. A beautiful elf with hair of silver and eyes of Grey. She was Silvan but her love was Noldor. Before she called herself Quélë, her name was—"

"Ilvanya," Glorfindal breathed, and green eyes flew once more to meet his in surprise. "Wife and Lady to Ecthelion."

"Aye," Lérwë nodded, reaching up to brush aside a strand of ash-blonde that fell into her face. She stared at Glorfindel wonderingly, unable to take her eyes off the warrior's palpable grief. "She survived the siege but returned after the fall of Gondolin and made it her refuge, refusing to leave and refusing to fade. Not completely."

"_I never knew she yet lived_," Glorfindel breathed, and his heart constricted in a pale echo of what Ilvanya – his dearest friend's mate – must have borne following the fall of their kingdom. "_Tell me, where now does she dwell?_"

In his grief, Glorfindel had lapsed into Quenya, but Lérwë offered him a tentative smile and responded in kind. "_She has sailed, just two seasons past, to find peace in the Undying Lands_."

At this, the golden-maned elf slumped ungainly in his seat, staring unseeingly at the wounds on his palm.

"_Take comfort, my lord,_" the verdant-eyed girl beseeched. "_For her pain had abated somewhat before she left these shores for fairer ones. I have travelled since she sailed, to deliver her news to old friends she wished to inform. In soothe, I was headed to King Oropher's lands just when our paths crossed._"

"_Oropher has passed on at the last battle at Mordor not two decades past_," Glorfindel stated, somewhat detachedly. "_His son, Thranduil, now rules his kingdom."_

"Ah. _They will meet sooner than she has expected then," _Lérwë responded a little sadly but with good cheer. "_Though it surprises me that Lord Cirdan made no mention of it._"

The elf lord did not reply, his golden gaze still fixed on his bleeding hand. Erestor placed a linen cloth in his palm, and Glorfindel fisted it without much thought.

"Why did she take you in then, if she has spent the last Age alone?" Elrond finally asked, before Lérwë could follow his seneschal onto the path of melancholic grief that had neither end nor respite. His friend had yet to deal with the loss of his kingdom proper, suppressed as it was in his vast mind. This young human child, however, had brought it to the fore and the elven lord feared that the Balrog slayer would fall into the dangerous abyss of despair despite the second life granted to him by the Valar.

"She found me on the outskirts of the ruin," the girl shrugged, staring at a spot on one of the intricately carved columns as though unwilling to meet the gaze of her host. "I had no memory of a time before then. So she took me in and cared for me, although her own health she cared not for. She once confided that it was my hair that made her do so."

"For Ecthelion held a fascination with all things silver," Glorfindel agreed, his golden gaze slipping over the braided silver that adorned her head. It was of little wonder that she had kept her hood up even in battle, for her pale hair was unlike that of any human's he had seen before. But where Ilvanya's hair was like liquid mithril that fell across smooth shoulders like the stillest of lakes under the moonlight, Lérwë's mane was the intertwining of silver and blonde strands – unpure silver, but silver nonetheless. "He, too, would have loved your hair."

Where most females would have blushed or swooned, Lérwë simply tilted her head to the side and regarded him with open curiousity, very much like she had when they first met. "You knew the Lord personally?"

"Aye," Glorfindel nodded, daringly meeting her gaze once more. "_A fine friend and a worthy comrade in battle._"

Then before Lérwë or any other could respond, the former Gondolin lord rose gracefully and silently exited the room.

"It seems, child, that we have learned much from each other this day," Elrond stated finally, in the silence that followed the wake of Glorfindel. Rising from his seat, he came around his desk to stand before the girl. "Since your earlier task of journeying to Mirkwood is no longer necessary, I wish to extend an invitation for you to remain longer within the halls of Imladris until a later time when you have made other plans."

"My thanks, Lord Elrond," Lérwë rose and curtseyed, somehow managing to pull it off without looking awkward despite her lack of a skirt or train. "But I was intending to return to the North, or perhaps journey to the land where Eregion once stood."

At this, Elrond regarded the girl with a thoughtful look on his face, a thousand other questions wanting to be asked. Yet he was not her liege, so he could not make her stay. She was not elven, despite of her upbringing and apparent title, but to ask her to rejoin the race of Man would be unduly cruel as she spoke not their tongue nor shared their customs. There was no place where she could feel a belonging to its people and for that, his heart went out to her. It would be as he had said earlier, "Your path is yours to decide, Lérwë."

They left for the evening meal together, an unlikely trio, with Erestor escorting their young guest on his arm. Each of them were lost in their own thoughts, one more heavy than the next, and it was not until they reached the doors to the dining hall that the petite blonde tilted her head up at Erestor and asked a question that had been tugging at her since her arrival at Imladris.

"Pray, tell the name of the golden lord who knew my _ammë _and her love?"

* * *

It had been an evening of sorrow and lament as the elves toasted their mortal guests and recalled their own losses in the war that was still fresh on their immortal memories. The three men were, for all purposes, drunk and on the brink of passing out on the cold, unforgiving floor. A minstrel sat upon a platform, strumming his lyre and lifting his alto up in song. It would be one of the last that night, for the hour was getting late. Tomorrow, the humans were to depart and return to their mortal lives.

Glorfindel listened dispassionately to the songs, drinking deeply from his cup of wine even though he had missed the evening meal.

In more ways than he could care to count (much less admit to), he still grieved for the fall of Gondolin, for those involved in the kinslaying and for those who perished in the Last Alliance. His death burned freshly in his mind, memories of a previous life brought painfully to the fore by a pair of bright emerald orbs and a halo of silver-spun hair.

Try as he might, there was little he could do to abate it. And let no one doubt that he had tried! He had tried to lose himself in the battle of the Last Alliance, tried to drown himself in work as he build Imladris up alongside Elrond and his council of wise elves. Then he pushed himself to his limits by spending weeks at a time on patrol, training the Imladris guard and annihilating any evil that crossed his path. But still those moments of his death burned bright each time he slipped lids over his eyes.

So he resigned himself to living a life of grief. Even Mandos' Halls could not contain him where else could he possibly turn to find peace?

A haunting tune of a strange timbre filled the hall, and the level of chatter fell by five notches, eyes turning to look at the strange human girl who had taken the last minstrel's place. Glorfindel found himself staring at the Lérwë as she blew into the silver instrument at her lips, the metal reflecting the merry dance of the fireplace to her right.

It was a familiar tune, one he had heard before an Age ago in a different hall, played by a different person on a different flute. His chest tightened, and his throat constricted painfully to a degree where the warrior felt he could not draw air.

Ecthelion had written that piece following the death of his sister at the hand of the Eastern barbarians. It was a tune so heartwrenchingly sad that many then had feared he would fade. Every note, every turn, every dissonant melody and ringing tone came together to form that a lament that played at the very heartstrings of those who heard it.

Midway through, an elleth stood and began to sing the words to the tune as the rest of the Hall listened on, some clearly transfixed and wondering.

When Lérwë was done, many eyes were bright with tears. She gathered her metal flute against her chest and curtseyed deeply before leaping lightly off the platform. Green eyes sought out the golden figure whom she had played the tune for, but found not what she was searching for.

Glorfindel had left the Hall of Fires.

* * *

A lone voice sang a lament that few dared to sing now and Elrond could only sigh as he gazed upon his seneschal. Glorfindel lay on his back on the stone bench, a flask of wine clasped loosely in his hand. The beauty of the gardens around him went unnoticed, but nevertheless enhanced the poignant atmosphere of the moment for any observers in the night.

The mighty balrog slayer who sacrificed his life for his people, only to be brought back to life by the Valar, lay there alone in the garden, uncaring of the sight that he might present to anyone. He took another swig from his wine flask before raising his voice to the heavens once more, more drunk on grief than on the spirits he had consumed.

For a few long moments, Elrond the Peredhil stood at the window overseeing the garden and sent a prayer to the Valar for his friend. Then he turned and retreated to the solitude of his rooms, leaving Glorfindel to his mourning. Were anyone to ask whether he preferred a grief-stricken Glorfindel to a stoic one who expressed little emotion, Elrond was sure he would be unable to answer. All he could now was worry and pray.

That night, the lament of the death of Glorfindel the Great rang loudly into the night air – Glorfindel's personal way of mocking the gods whom he (in an odd way) loved and who (in an even odder way) loved him.

* * *

To Be Continued...


	3. Reaching out for Nothing

Chapter 3: Reaching out for Nothing

She felt out of place in this safe haven for elves, surrounded by the beauty not only of the place but of its inhabitants. It was a beauty she had often marveled at in her foster mother – one arrested in time, never to be changed. There was a certain stillness and patience imbibed in the very being of each of the elves.

For many years it had just been herself with her _ammë_, two beings in a deserted land. They lived simply and without fuss. Or at least, the Lady Ilvanya never let her complain for too long before reminding her that life would not be life without a little hardship. Chastened, she would stop, but like every other human with only a fraction of an elf's attention span, would start again after some time. _Ammë _would then reprimand her with a look and several choice words before sending her out to complete extra chores.

"You are welcome to stay," Elrond spoke graciously, a faint smile on his lips as he regarded the fidgeting girl. Though he was not quite sure why she had decided to stay after all, he appreciated her reasons that she did not quite have anywhere to go that very moment. "Certainly, I hope you find these Halls more hospitable than a damp bedroll in the wild."

Lérwë could have disagreed with the words of the elven lord, but she had learned, in time, to choose the battles to fight.

"My thanks, Lord," she murmured, dipping her head in a respectful nod. "Since I know not the duration I will stay, perhaps I could be put to some use in your household?"

If Elrond found her offer surprising, he made little show of it. Instead, he considered her with a thoughtful look on his fair features before nodding in acceptance.

"Perhaps some needlework or painting? Or would you prefer that I contact the Lady of a noble family who could employ the services of a—"

"Stablehand?" Lérwë offered, cutting him off mid-sentence with an amused twinkle in her verdant eyes. She seemed to be laughing at him soundlessly, though her lips were quirked only in a small, polite small. "I assure you, no lady would want me near them with neither needle nor ladle lest I wreck havoc on their orderly households. In soothe, I would be more at ease in a garden or a stable. Perhaps even in a carpenter's shop or pottery."

She spoke with no pretense, that much Elrond could tell from her open and honest expression. She mocked him a little, he could see, though it was without ill-intent. It was also true that no other had seen the girl in anything but her long tunic and breeches.

"Inform Erestor that you are to perform duties in the stable during the day, and join the minstrels in the Hall of Fires in the eve."

The curious silver-haired human cocked her head to the side like a robin was wont to do, slightly surprised at his decision. Then she flashed another of her curious smiles – that seemed to say nothing but so many things at once – and sketched a quick curtsey, evidently satisfied with his arrangements.

Elrond responded with a wordless smile of his own before excusing himself and making his way straight to his study. For though the human girl-child was an interesting thing to sit and wonder at and about, his duties as lord of the land demanded his attention, at least until it was time for the midday meal.

* * *

Restlessness fairly emanated from the figure sitting beneath the tree. One could tell from the subtle movements it made, shifting its seating position every five minutes or so, with hands moving about in search of a comfortable enough resting place. A pair of keen verdant eyes were unreservedly watching the activities on the field, and a closed book lay ignored by the side.

When Camaen heard her sigh for perhaps the seventh time in the hour that she had been there, the guard halted his practice and made his way towards her. When he was within lancing distance of her, Lérwë fixed her eyes on him, an unwavering blank look that made him smile.

"Good day, I am Camaen of Imladris."

"Good day," she responded, lips quirking slightly in a reserved smile. "I did not thank you for sharing your horse with me previously."

"Ah, the maiden doth remember me," Camaen laughed. "Your thanks are accepted but not necessary, for it is highly unlikely that Glorfindel would have made you walk."

"I doubt that," the human laughed, self-conciously tugging her hood lower across her forehead. "He cares little for me."

"But I know the Captain better than you and I say that he is a fair elf."

"Aye," she agreed readily enough, her smile widening by a fraction. "In more ways than one."

Camaen caught the double entendre and he laughed, a merry sound that seemed rather out of place from where they stood by the side of a training field.

"So why have you come to speak with the curious human?" Lérwë queried, her frank words clearly suggesting that he wanted something out of her despite the light tone she employed.

"Because the curious human is a curious thing, and I'm afraid I have never been one to let my curiosity go unsated."

"And what does your curious curiousity demand of me?"

"Tell me, strange miss, how fare you with a blade?"

"Well enough," she responded slowly, a distinct twinkle now present in her jade-hued eyes. "Though I suppose I don't really know."

"Come, now. We cannot have such ignorance in the House of Elrond the Peredhil. Allow me to remedy it."

They faced off each other, blades in hand, and purposefully ignored the curious looks they were garnering. A warrior she-elf called for Camaen to be careful with the human girl, but the guard had seen Lérwë in action on the battlefield and was firmly decided that he needed to do no such thing unless the situation called for it.

Metal clashed loudly against each other as their blades met, the girl handling her borrowed blade with some difficulty as she adjusted to its heft and swing. Without giving it too much thought, Camaen allowed her the time to do so, leading her through an easy thrust and parry routine. On hindsight, he probably ought not have shown her such leniency.

Her movements quickened and sharpened with each passing minute and Camaen found himself gradually adjusting to an intense pace. Twist, thrust, guard, parry, duck, block and dodge. It seemed that the tables were turned as she put him through the paces before darting forward and slicing his arm through his thin linen shirt.

"First blood."

"Aye," Camaen agreed, frowning at his blood-stained sleeve. She was breathing more heavily now, and a slight sheen of perspiration covered her forehead. "Again."

It was not that he was underestimating her or going easy on her, it just seemed like she was as slippery as a freshly-caught fish and managed to outmaneuver him at every turn. He was unfamiliar with the way in which she fought, which was neither the fluid motions of an elf nor the lumbering movements of her race. When her blade slipped through his skin, leaving its fourth shallow cut, Camaen hissed in pain and backed away in surrender. There was a smattering of applause from around them and the warrior elf let out an uncanny bark of laughter.

"Are you all right?" She asked, sounding worried even as she fought to regulate her breathing which was, by now, coming out in pants.

"Aye, tis nothing my beloved will not fix." Though she would indubitably be suitably annoyed at him staining yet another shirt. "You made your cuts were shallow enough."

"That's… good," Lérwë responded after a pause. The girl sheathed her sword, and Camaen watched with some disappointment as her warrior self faded behind her reserved countenance once more. She brushed away a bead of moisture from her cheek and offered him a faint smile. "Thank you."

"Nay, the thanks should be mine to give," Camaen chuckled, reaching behind to check that his braids were still in place. "It was a good workout."

"It proved that your training is somewhat lacking too."

Startled, Lérwë and Camaen turned as one to stare disbelievingly at the elf that had taken Lérwë's seat beneath the tree. Golden strands contrasted sharply off the dark cloak the girl had hung on the lowest branch as Glorfindel studied them with a dispassionate eye.

"Aye, perhaps," Camaen shrugged, clenching his fist to stem the trickle of blood. "She fights too much like you."

Glorfindel made an uncommittal noise in response even as he eyed the panting human. She did, indeed, fight with a distinctly Noldor flair that he had not noticed before. It was slightly unpolished and lacked the natural grace of most warrior elves but it was there nonetheless. Never had he thought that a human could master the elvish sword dances as well as she had. It was curious, and consternating.

"Ilvanya taught you well."

"Ah. My thanks." An awkward silence rushed in to fill the space over Camaens mumbled complaints as the guard eased himself to the ground beside his captain while preparing to wrap the flesh wounds with strips of his ruined shirt. "I'm sure you have more to teach me, though. She spoke highly of you."

"You should spar with her, Glorfindel," Camaen hedged when the elven lord did not reply immediately.

"Please?" Lérwë added unexpectedly, leaning her slight frame against the handle of her sword. Her stunningly green gaze arrested his and Glorfindel found himself rising to acquiesce. If she was Ilvanya's adopted child then she could be, to him, a niece of some kind.

While Camaen sparring a human garnered attention, the seneschal facing off a human girl was a sight never beheld in history (Elrond would say otherwise, but that is a tale for another time). A crowd bracketed the pair and Imladris' elves readied themselves for the show of the decade.

It seemed as though it was over as soon as it began, with Glorfindel's sword slipping past Lérwë's and pinning her at the neck. But a fierce fire seemed to blaze to life within her and the girl smirked, arching backwards and away from the tip of the sword so that she could slip from under its deadly grasp. Immediately, the golden lord's blade dipped to follow her path but found itself blocked by the steel wielded in her hand. With two hands, she brought their swords up and around, and planted both feet firmly in the ground.

Glorfindel smiled, and she mirrored his expression but soon found that she had no time to bother about facial expressions and social niceties. Instead, she concerned herself with the blade that parried against hers, thrusting and blocking with such alacrity, she rather thought she ought to be scared. Yet she was far from scared. It was thrilling and exciting and an amazing rush of euphoria sped through her even after the match ended with her blade on the ground and him bloodying her forearm.

She fell to the ground with a laugh, the first show of unrestrained emotions that any around had seen from her. It was not a polite smile or an amused chuckle. It was a full-blown, smile-inducing belly laugh that made Camaen grin like a loon. Even Glorfindel looked amused.

"_It's like sparring with a__mmë__ back home again,"_ she finally wheezed out, when she had her breathing under control once more. Lérwë noticed neither the stiffening of Glorfindel's spine nor the tensing of his muscles. _"Promise me that we can do that again."_

"_I will do no such thing,"_ the golden-haired elf breathed, having shuttered his expression at first mention of her adopted mother. "Please see to your wound."

Spinning on the heel of his boots, he removed himself with distance-eating strides, leaving behind him a crowd of curious spectators and an embarrassed but thoroughly confused human child.

* * *

She hummed a light tune under her breath as she worked, methodically and thoroughly brushing out the massive horse's hair. The beast ignored her, too preoccupied with the trough that contained his midday meal to bother about the diminutive figure working needlessly through tangles in his glossy coat. When she was done and the horse's hair gleamed in the light, the silver-haired girl collected her pail of brushes and grooming supplies, slipping out of the stall with a cheerful pat to his rump. He whickered at her and made a grab at her hair with his teeth but Lérwë merely stuck a pink tongue out at him and called a taunting goodbye.

"Very mature, child," someone mocked, coming from behind her and stealing the pail from her grasp. Lérwë spun around and easily caught the cloth bundle that the other stablehand tossed at her.

"You call me 'child' but expect me to behave as you do, an aging _eldar_?" The human girl responded blithely, verdant eyes twinkling despite the stern line formed by her lips. "Tis hardly fair, Lennor."

The pair made their way to the back of the stables, bickering as a pair of old friends were wont to do, never mind that they had met a mere thirty mornings ago. Hopping up to perch on the fence, Lérwë dipped her hand into the bundle and carefully withdrew the steaming packets that contained their lunches. They were joined by two others, and the stablemaster after a moment, and the group chatted easily around mouthfuls of hot fowl and freshly baked bread.

Barely halfway through their supping, however, the unmistakable footsteps of a contingent of guards stilled all conversation. For several long seconds, five pairs of eyes traded silent glances. Then with a small shake of her head, the petite human clambered down without the grace of an elf and handed her food to Lennor.

"Steal even one tempting morsel and risk my wrath, Master Lennor," she warned, though a faint smile echoed those words. Quick steps brought her around the stable where she was met with the expected contingent of guards. What was unexpected, however, was the tall elf that who stood at their helm. Widened green clashed with gold and the impatient words that surely were on Glorfindel's lips sputtered and died out like the last embers in a fireplace.

As with every meeting between them, a tension-laden silence descended swiftly upon the two. Lérwë shifted on her feet and the golden-haired Lord tore his heavy gaze from hers with some effort.

"_Can I help you, Lord?"_ She asked, and her soft but clear Quenya sounded clearly throughout the stable yard. Her gaze held steady despite his apparent unwillingness to even so much as look at her. He had, she knew, avoided him at every turn as was made evident by the fact that he blatantly turned and walked off in the opposite direction each time he saw her. Emerald eyes stared defiantly at those shuttered golden irises, almost daring the elf-lord to turn and leave this time.

"We'll be taking our horses," he said, golden gaze landing somewhere on the tip of her nose. He deliberately spoke Sindarin, she knew, though he needlessly added, "another skirmish of orcs has been spotted."

"_As you wish it_," Lérwë demurred, coolly polite, though she fastidiously spoke in the tongue she was most comfortable with. "_I will let Master Vanya know._"

The stablehands did not touch the war horses – that was the duty of the soldiers and guards – but Stablemaster Vanya claimed he slept better if he could account for every horse housed within Imladris' stables. None of the captains saw need to begrudge him that, not even the great Lord Glorfindel, it seemed.

The seneschal nodded and the human curtseyed, effectively ending the queerly stilted and too-formal conversation.

* * *

_Year 18 of the Third Age__, __Hrívë__ (Winter__)_

Quelindiel Lérwë seemed intent on ruining him.

When Glorfindel had first insisted that she returned to Imladris with him, he had been intent on figuring out the human puzzle. But after she had told them the story behind her strange upbringing (though not the whole story, Erestor insisted), the elf lord wished he had had nothing to do with her. If only, he lamented to himself, he had let her walk away. Perhaps she would then be wandering the lands where Eregion once stood, alone but not troubling his every thought.

The _edain _girl appeared everywhere he went. In the stables where he groomed his mare; in the soldier's halls near which she stayed; in the practice fields where she traded blows with his men; in the pastures beyond the stables where she rode with friends; in the dining hall where though they supped on the opposite ends of the room, her hair reflected the flickering candlelight; even in the library where she seemed intent on perusing every last book in the vast rooms.

To be sure, the ash-blond female had settled in well. Her quiet, but polite demeanor belied an intelligent mind and sharp wit (though if stories were to be believed, she had a temper that rivaled his). Her easygoing ways made it difficult for many elves to dislike her presence, especially since she lacked the brash and obtrusive air that seemed a constant companion to most humans. Many enjoyed her company. From the stablehands and musicians to the kitchen help and chamber ladies, her friends seemed to number in the hundreds. Sometimes, it was almost enough to forget she was of the Secondborn.

Yet when he stood looking out his balcony in the dead of night, Glorfindel sometimes spied a lone head of golden silver in the gardens by the stream beneath his rooms. Not standing tall and proud like an elf in the wistful throes of love, but hunched over and brooding as though she wished to curl into herself and disappear. For hours she would stare at the running water, unnaturally still for a human, not moving and not speaking until the sun began to break through the horizon in the East.

And for those same hours, he would stand there watching her.

* * *

The festivities were a sight to behold, with coloured banners hanging from pillar to pillar and fires burning merrily in the fireplaces. Couples danced in the middle of the hall to the music drawn by skillful fingers from strings and keys. Every elf was dressed resplendently, and many a glass were filled and drained over and again.

Elrond, Lord of Imladris, rather thought that some of his friends may as well drink straight from the pitcher. The healer swirled the amber liquid in his glass and cast his gaze towards the soldiers' tables where his seneschal and chief advisor sat, having very quickly abandoned him to the lonely job of helming the head table with several of the more aged advisors. Erestor threw his head back and let out a great bellowing laugh, clearly having left behind his usual strict decorum five emptied glasses back. Ignoring the lonely pang that tugged at his heart strings, the elven lord took another careful sip from the crystal goblet.

A new merry tune was struck, and he turned his eyes to a figure atop the minstrels' stage. Quelindiel Lérwë of the Ruins of the Silver Fountain had, to her lips, her strange metal flute which had become a common sight in the evenings in the Hall of Fire. Seldom had he spoken to her for the three years that she had been his guest in name. She had not sought him out and there never was need to seek her presence. A most unobtrusive charge, the girl had, for all intents, made herself at home with his people. It was almost pleasant. Yet he knew she would never truly be at home. And when she passed on to Mandos' Hall, she would be but a delightful bittersweet memory in their minds.

Abruptly reminded of his brother, Eldrond tipped the contents of his glass into his mouth to quell the thought, allowing liquid fire to burn a pathway down his gullet and into his stomach. Pale lips quirked upward in the realization that he was steeping in the waters of melancholy and the elven lord stood, intent to retire for the night.

Graceful even in his somber mood, the Imladris lord made his way across the hall towards the soldiers' tables, a respectful hush following him as he swept past tables.

"Mind you if I leave you to the festivities to retire to my chambers?" Elrond queried as he came to a halt behind Erestor's seat. The brunette advisor turned a startled but blearied gaze to his and the younger elf nodded and gave his leave, clearly unused to his lord requesting leave from him to do anything, much less to leave a hall.

Elrond was not, however, speaking to the young advisor, though he said nothing of it. Instead he offered Erestor a kind smile and turned to stare curiously at the back of Glorfindel's head. The golden-haired Noldor was looking most intently at the far side of the Hall, oblivious to his presence.

The elven lord followed the path mapped by liquid golden. On the far side of the Hall, the minstrels' stage was erected. And upon it stood a young woman, playing the fastest jig an elf could dance to on a unique silver flute. Elrond blinked.

"Will you not have another drink, my lord?"

Startled, Elrond tilted his head at his seneschal who was now looking at him with an unreadable expression. Suddenly, Glorfindel seemed more inscrutable than ever.

"No, my thanks," he responded after a pregnant pause. "I hope you have had an enjoyable begetting day, my friend."

There was irony in his words and Elrond knew it even as he walked away from the Lord of the Golden Flower whom he knew very well was drinking to forget the fact that he had even been reborn in the first instance.

* * *

"Happy Begetting day," Lérwë offered in her usual carefully muted tone. Her hands were clasped behind her back and she shifted uneasily on her slippered feet, eyes darting briefly from place to place looking at everything but into his eyes. It was a strange sight, for it was usually he who avoided looking into those piercing green eyes.

A cool breeze invaded the space between them, and the girl, dressed as she was in a pale formal gown, shivered. But she made no complaint, merely biting down on the corner of lips before discernably steeling her nerves and meeting his gaze. The tension between them that had been present since their first acquaintance sharpened and almost seemed to threaten asphyxiation.

"Thank you, Miss," Glorfindel responded slowly, wishing he had a cloak on that he could drape over her barely covered shoulders. Were she not who she was, he would have berated the foolish girl for being so careless with her already fragile human health. And yet, when she requested a brief audience, it was he who suggested the outdoors, at the very spot in the garden that she sometimes occupied in the dead of night.

"There is something I wish to give to you," Lérwë informed him, drawing from behind her back an object that she handled with reverent care.

"It is not necessa—"

"Take it," the human dared interrupt him, moving forward and unabashedly pressing it into his palm as gently as possible.

Glorfindel stared at the fragile flower in his palm, arrested in full bloom as it was.

"It's a Golden Flower," came the needless explanation. "_Ammë_ preserved it with her magic. She gave it to me on one of my begetting days, but I think you would treasure more so than I. As a keepsake of memories."

"_Foolish child. I do not want to remember. Why do you persist on tormenting me so?"_

Lérwë blinked then turned her gaze away.

"_I know not. Perhaps I was seeking a common understanding that does not exist."_

Glorfindel did not reply, though his fingers turned the stem of the golden flower over and over again. He kept his face impassive out of sheer habit, though inside he wondered at the precious gift the strange girl had presented him with.

"_Good bye,"_ Lérwë murmured, gathering her skirt and turned to leave. _"Worry not for I will take care not to do so again."_

When Lord of the Golden Flower glanced up, the silver-haired girl-child was gone. No dramatics and no apologies, just the simple act of walking away.

Yet where she left no footprints in the blanket of snow, her sadness echoed in the lush garden.


	4. For Short is a Mortal's life

**Chapter 4: For a mortal's life is short**

It was with less circumstance than she had arrived that Lérwë left, slipping away unobtrusively in the quiet of the night. She took nothing with her that she had not brought to Imladris, leaving behind her accumulated possessions as tokens of regard, gratitude and farewell.

For Lindir and the minstrels, the human girl-child left a stack of music sheets of both self-composed and Noldoric tunes. For Master Vanya, a fine riding cloak she had stitched and worn for herself, and for Lennor, a half-Mearas horse she had raised from a foal and was known for his mischievous streak. For Camaen, she left an ornate silver dagger, purchased from the local blacksmith, and for his love, the basket of embroidery tools she had been taught to sew with. For Erestor, a book of children's tales handwritten in her neat, flourish-free script. For the kitchen cooks, she left behind a garden of herbs she had cultivated with their help, and for the head gardener, a well-loved pair of gardening gloves.

The list went on, and it was as though Lérwë had sectioned and left behind her life in Imladris, giving everyone she had come to know something to remember her by. The eldar accepted her gifts, each accompanied by a letter that apologised for her abrupt departure.

Some murmured regret at being unable to bid her farewell, while others spoke of a bittersweet gladness at not having to watch her age and die. No one expected to lay eyes on her again, but it was with fondness that they spoke of the silver-haired girl, even as they moved on with their immortal lives.

Three years, after all, were easily swept up and away in their indefinite passages of time.


End file.
